


Ends and Odds

by fowl68



Series: Tit for Tat [2]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Backstory, Brother-Sister Relationships, Brothers, Childhood Friends, Divorce, Domestic, Drabble, F/M, Father-Daughter Relationship, Father-Son Relationship, M/M, One Shot, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, War, What-If
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-01
Updated: 2014-02-08
Packaged: 2018-01-07 00:58:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1113603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fowl68/pseuds/fowl68
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One-shots and occasional drabbles from the Tit for Tat verse. Ongoing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

* * *

  
_"Our siblings push buttons that cast us in roles we felt sure we had let go of long ago-the baby, the peacekeeper, the caretaker, the avoider. It doesn't seem to matter how much time has elapsed or how far we've travelled."  
_ _-Jane Mersky Ledir_  


* * *

Arthur was in the shower when she called. He hardly heard the phone and he wasn't about to rush to answer it.

But when it stopped ringing and, a minute later, Eames slipped into the bathroom, he felt his instincts flare and he tensed. He poked his head around the shower curtain and Eames was holding the phone and looking serious. "What is it? Who's—"

"It's your sister," Eames said, holding Arthur's cell phone out to him.

After their mother died, Arthur had given Mina his cell phone number—"In case anything happens."—but he'd hoped she'd never use it. He turned the shower off with one hand while grabbing the phone the other.

"Mina?" She didn't say anything. "Mina, what's wrong?"

"I'm here, Cameron, and I'm okay, I promise."

"That doesn't answer my question." Arthur shoved his hair back out of his face, needing something to do with his hands. He could picture her biting her lip. She did that when she was nervous. "Mina…"

"…It's dad. He came back."

Ice dropped into Arthur's stomach. "What?"

"I don't know how he found us, but he came to our house and—"

"Did he hurt you?" Eames' head snapped up and Arthur could see him listening harder, but ignored him.

"No, no. I told you, I'm fine. I'm just—I'm scared, Cameron. I don't want him near the kids."

Arthur Bishop and Danielle's faces swam in front of Arthur. God, but they were younger than he'd been when their father had been taken away. "Where's Jayson?"

"He's here."

Arthur wanted to ask if her husband knew about their father, the drunken, dirty cop, but he didn't know his sister well enough to know just how close to the vest she liked to play things. "I'm going over there. If he comes again, don't let him get close."

"I never intended to let him." Her voice reflected the steel in her spine and Arthur was reminded that his sister was not the innocent eight year old she had been.

Arthur was about to hang up, but he hesitated. "It'll be okay." He snapped the phone shut and stepped out of the shower, starting to towel himself off quickly.

"Arthur," Eames asked, still standing where he had been, just inside the door and looking a mixture of protective and wary. "What's happened?" He stepped around the forger into the bedroom so he could get dressed and Eames turned, following him with his eyes. "Arthur?"

_(His first instinct is to stay quiet and just leave. But he and Eames have moved beyond that now. They're too close to each other's situations to play that kind of game anymore)_

"…Our father," the words burned in Arthur's throat even as he belted on his pants. "Paid Mina a visit."

"She's alright?"

"Yeah. But I'm not about to give him the opportunity to do anything." His fingers felt vaguely clumsy with his shirt buttons. Eames gave him a look and crossed the room and gently patted his hands away before doing up the buttons himself.

_(Eames wants to go, wants to help because Mina is family now too, is part of the people Eames knows he never wants to give up. He wants to see the man that was the first true instrument into forging the man in front of him. But it's not his place and he knows it)_

"Call if you need backup."

Arthur looked a little surprised at the words _(He shouldn't be. He and Eames have been everything from strangers to lovers)_ "…alright."

* * *

 

Mina hugged him once he got through the door, tight enough that said she was still keeping it together.

"Has he come back?" Arthur asked.

"Not here. I've seen him around town though. It's making me nervous."

Arthur rubbed his hands on her upper arms—there were goosebumps and it was only the tail end of summer—and told her that he wouldn't let him get here. He caught a metal baseball bat in the corner by the door, well within easy reach.

He smiled a little at the sight despite himself. _(After that night, Arthur James Reynolds had taken their little eight year old sister out and shown her how to play baseball. She had a damn good swing and Arthur James Reynolds had told her to use it if she needed to. Arthur is pleasantly surprised to find that the memory doesn't hurt)_ "What, no shotgun?"

She looked at him, startled by the smile, but mirrored it shakily. "Well, I don't need blood all over my walkway. Tends to make people ask questions."

A small body swung around the corner. "Hey, mom—" Arthur Bishop stared up at the uncle he rarely saw and Arthur felt his heart clench a little. Nine years old already. He was getting big and his hair wasn't quite long enough to be curly, but it looked like it was wavy, like his father's rather than his uncles'.

"What is it, Arthur?" _(She can never quite bring herself to call him Arty. Arty is her brother's name)_

He forced himself not to turn at the name. His nephew tore his eyes away. "I need help with my math homework."

Mina smiled at him. "Sure. I'll be there in a minute, hon."

Arthur Bishop nodded and glanced back once more at Arthur before going back towards the living room. Mina looked at her brother. "So what's your plan?"

"Where do you see him?"

"Usually near the neighborhood. Around the museum sometimes. I don't even know how he found us." She folded her arms across her stomach and she suddenly looked too tired for her age. "God, I can't sleep. I keep thinking he's going to come through the door and—"

"He won't. I won't let him." He didn't know if he was Arthur or Cameron now, for he doesn't feel very much like either. Maybe he's both.

* * *

 

Being inside the house made him feel restless, made him want to leave, to get the next flight out of New York and go…anywhere. Maybe Chile. Or Scotland. Some place with mountains. His niece, Danielle, was far too curious and she had their great-grandfather's green eyes _(The same eyes that Arthur James Reynolds inherited)_ and she seemed to like the idea of having an uncle.

Arthur Bishop was a quieter sort, though Arthur knew that his nephew could be quite loud and boisterous with his cousins on his father's side. Arthur Bishop would curl up on the couch to read, asking aloud what a word meant or how to pronounce one.

Arthur spent half of his time outside on a bench they had in their front garden. _(He remembers, faintly, that their mother used to love cacti and would always have some on the windowsills, but that had been before she had to finish raising three children on her own. Had Emma and Mina gardened together after the brothers had left?)_ The press of the gun—yes he brought one. Purely precautionary—against the small of his back was familiar and not quite uncomfortable. Mina had two days off this week and she was staying here as much as possible. Her husband still had work.

He sat out there for a day and a half before he saw the man walk up the driveway. _(Arthur doesn't remember his father much. He knows that, before that night, his father had seemed a good man, one who loved his family. But things changed and after that, Arthur had tried his hardest to forget he had a father)_

It took him a moment to recognize him. William Scott Reynolds had been a handsomely plain man, but now his hair was receding and he seemed a little too thin, though he was still tall and powerfully built. He was still clean-shaven—a habit that Arthur didn't like to think he learned from him.

His father studied the man sitting in Mina's garden and Arthur stared right back, unflinching. _(He is not that boy anymore, skinny and scrawny and thirteen and the knowledge is satisfying)_ "…Cameron?"

William Scott Reynolds didn't recognize his son. Not right away. It shouldn't have been surprising; it had been more than two decades since he'd seen him. But the face was the same, if just a little harder. The brown eyes were familiar—his own in the mirror were the same color—but Cameron's were flint-sharp and the curls that used to be longer than Emma would have liked were gelled back.

_(He heard about the military once he got out of jail. Heard about his sons joining the Marines and he was so proud of them. But then he heard about Arthur James Reynolds. About his first son—older by three minutes, the boys would always remind them—and how Cameron had never come back and William sees the soldier in him now)_

Arthur stood—he'd gotten tall, William thought—and he moved in front of the door. The movement made William want to flinch. He deserved it after what he'd done. "Don't go near her."

"Cameron, I'm not here to hurt anyone."

"I don't know that."

"I want to make sure she's okay. Since Emma died…" He hadn't gone to the funeral—he knew that he wouldn't be welcome—but he'd gone after everyone left.

Arthur shoved his hands in the pockets of the brown leather jacket, cracked, old and worn. "Mina can take care of herself. And even if she couldn't, it's not your business." His voice was cold with jagged edges and William had the thought that this man wasn't the person anyone remembered.

"I'm your father."

"You're our parent," Arthur agreed.

"I admit it—I made mistakes. A lot of them and not a one that I don't regret. And I'll stay out of the way; I just want to make sure she's taken care of."

"She's got me and a husband to worry about that."

"Last I heard, you disappeared."

The first instinctive emotion was shame; Arthur had been a coward after his brother died, had wanted nothing but to see him alive and laughing again and dreams had given that to him. And he couldn't have faced Mina and his mother and told them that Arthur James Reynolds was dead and he was still okay, just a little scarred.

But Arthur set his jaw. He wouldn't be shamed, not anymore, not by this man. "Maybe, but I didn't get arrested."

William's son had his mother's defiance and it was so strange to see on what had been the polite son, the sweet one. William himself had never been a rebel, had grown up under his father's Navy strictness and hadn't resented it. But Emma…Emma had fire in her, her father had said once. Fire and courage in spades. "You didn't even come back for his funeral."

No names were necessary and Arthur felt the dog tags around his neck like a brand. "Are you about to tell me you did?"

"Afterwards." The same way he had after Emma's. "Cameron, please, let me by. She's my daughter; I have a right to see her."

"If I let you by, then your daughter's gonna open the door and hand you your ass on a golden platter with a baseball bat. Trust me, I'm sparing you." But he took his hands out of his pockets, ready to draw his gun if he needed to. _(Never again will he let this man near his family. And he knows about second chances—oh, how well he knows about them—but the first betrayal is the worst and he cannot trust the man who is biologically his father near Mina)_

William read the threat in the lines of the shoulders, in the contours of his face. War changed a man, but William had hoped that war would never change his son like that. "Are you going to stop me?"

"Yes." William waited, but there was no elaboration, no fancy words. It was stated hard and cold as a fact.

So William tried a different tact. "…Talk with me over lunch and I'll leave."

"Or you could just leave now. 'S simpler that way."

"I need to know that you're both doing alright."

"Funny, I don't remember you needing to know that before mom died."

"Cameron—"

"Just walk away. Walk away and don't come back."

"No."

Arthur took a few steps back until he hit the doorstep and sat down slowly, one hand reaching behind him to pull out a pistol. He handled it easily, leaning his forearms on his thighs and letting the gun dangle. He didn't say a word, just sat there, blocking the door.

_(William has known how to shoot since he was ten years old and his father had taken him out to the shooting range to practice. But his son seems more familiar with that gun than he ever could and William reads the look on his face, knows he isn't afraid to shoot)_

"Going to shoot me, Cameron?"

Something about the phrase made tension sing in the younger man's shoulders, his posture. _(His brother's face in Eames' mind, smile gentle and mocking. "Going to kill me, Cameron? Can you?")_ "If I have to."

"What happened to you?"

"A lot."

William looked between the gun and his son and finally nodded.

* * *

 

Mina would come out later to find her brother still on her doorstep, but without a gun in his hands. She crouched next to him. "Cameron?"

"He came," he told her quietly.

He felt her stiffen. "And?"

"I sent him away. I can't guarantee he won't come back."

Soft lips brushed his cheek. "…Thank you, Cameron. I—I know it wasn't easy."

Arthur gave a small huff of laughter, leaning back a little and stretching out his legs. "Actually, it was a lot easier than I thought it would be. He and I—we're both very different then we were then."

Mina knew that. She'd seen the changes in him, knew that while there was still the sweet, nerdy, feisty brother in there, there was more to him. More than even being a soldier, even if she couldn't really see what that more was.

"I'm glad," she said without thinking. He looked at her _(and sometimes it hurts, seeing his face and remembering Arty. But she's not about to drive her only remaining brother away because of a memory)_ "You seem happier now."

Arthur stared at her. Mina had always been so observant, but he'd never known the extent of it.

She wasn't finished though. "And I think I have Eames to thank for it. Partially, at least. He makes you happy."

Arthur had never told her about him and Eames, not because he was unsure of how she would take it, but because he wasn't quite sure how to tell her. But apparently, he didn't need to tell her. "…Just don't tell him that. He doesn't need a bigger ego."

Mina chuckled a little _(Arthur is grateful for the sound. She'll be okay, after this)_. "No, he really doesn't."

She would invite him to stay for dinner and he would agree, but he couldn't stay the night. After all this, he wanted nothing more than his familiar apartment with its scents of cooking and old books and ink, lingering smoke on the sheets and cologne that wasn't his in the bathroom. He wanted to go home.


	2. Chapter 2

* * *

_"A brother shares childhood memories and grown-up dreams." -  
Anonymous_

* * *

"You're going into the service?"

Charlie didn't look at him. Allen was his best friend, had been his best friend for as long as he could remember, but he didn't think that even he would understand the decision. "It's better for me."

Allen crossed his arms, leaning back against the counter. Charlie tried to visit him at work whenever he could, but this was different. "To get involved in all that's been going on? It's madness over there. You'll be killed."

"I'm not like you, Allen." And it was more than simply the physical. Allen had the kind of big shoulders that Charlie had always thought that, if he ever filled to fit them, would make him a good fighter or wrestler. Charlie had always been on the small side—looking back, he wasn't sure if it was genes or malnutrition—but they were both getting their feet under them, finding stability. Charlie tried not to think about how strange it was that Allen was doing better than he was.

Gray eyes narrowed at him. "And what's that supposed to mean?"

"Don't be dramatic. It just means that I don't have this beautiful girl waiting for me when I get home. I'm never going to university—"

"Hey," Allen interjected. "Neither am I!"

"Yeah, but you're—dammit, I can't explain it. You're different."

"Different?" he repeated.

"Yup." And Charlie couldn't explain it, but he'd seen it from the first day on that dusty street corner that Allen was made for more than cons and bummed smokes. More than stealing and forging papers so he could eat.

"You make almost no sense sometimes, y'know that?" Allen sensed that perhaps joining the military was something that Charlie preferred not to talk about and Allen had never been very good at lines, but he knew where to stop when it came to them.

Charlie shrugged. "Neither do you half the time." He ran a hand over his newly buzzed hair. "So are you at least gonna feed me before I go abroad?"

"When do you leave?"

"Two days' time."

Allen stared at him. _(His friend, his best friend, one of his_ only _friends and his brother in all the places it counts, is leaving and he doesn't know what to do with this sudden cold grip on his heart that feels like fear. He's watched the news; he doesn't want to see Charlie end up as one of those stories._ Twelve killed in a bombing _or_ Ambush wounds dozens _. The idea terrifies him because some part of him doesn't quite know what a life would be without him)_

"So you tell me now?"

"Look, there's no use getting mad at me," Charlie told him. "I-I didn't want it hanging over you. Just—I don't wanna think about it. Can we just enjoy dinner?"

Charlie hated it when Allen looked at him like that. Analyzing and understanding and dammit, couldn't the other man have the decency to stay angry at him? Because Charlie hadn't been fair to him. Not with less than a year to go before he was a father with no clue how to be one. Not when he was finally putting his life together.

"Yeah, yeah, of course. Let me lock up."

* * *

Charlie Anderson will never know his goddaughter, nor will she ever know him. Charlie will never know what it is to see her on a soccer field and go to her first day of school like he had promised he would so long ago.

_(They're eleven and huddled together in the kitchen for warmth. London winters get cold and they talk about the future and their dreams and Allen says that he wants a family and Charlie tells him that he likes the idea of being an uncle)_

The first time he sees her is for a few days when he's on leave. She is a little under two years old. She is her mother in looks, all blonde curls and beautiful smile. She is napping on the sofa and knows his voice only from scratchy phone conversations.

Charlie leans over the back of the sofa to get a good look at the little girl that Allen tells him about so often. "Allen…we're gonna have our hands full with this one."

And Allen throws a pillow at him. "Don't remind me."

The other man grins wickedly. "What? I thought you'd like the idea of chasing off her boyfriends with a gun."

"Who said anything about a gun?"

"It's all for dramatic effect."

"You're having too much fun with the idea."

"Well, I'll be right there next to you, won't I?"

Allen laughs a little. "Yeah, I guess you will." Because he can't picture anything else.


	3. Chapter 3

* * *

_It is easier to build strong children than to repair broken men.  
~Frederick Douglass_

* * *

It's a ritual. Every morning, he would slip out from beside Sherallyn—she worked nights these days, though she was trying to get a different job—and head to their kitchen that wouldn't fit the three of them in there at a time to make breakfast.

At almost exactly seven o'clock every morning, he would start to hear small feet along the floors, shuffling a little as they came towards the kitchen. At that point, he would turn from the stove temporarily to scoop his daughter up into a hug, kissing her temple before plopping her down onto the counter accompanied by the sound of her laughter.

Allen pushed his daughter's bangs out of her face; she was stubborn about it. She wanted it to be long, 'like Ariel'. _The Little Mermaid_ was her favorite movie. Amara Reed had her mother's looks and with that came unruly curls that had a knack for getting itself into fantastic tangles. They'd finally figured out a system of braiding her hair before bed. It didn't resolve all the tangles, but it made it better.

She inclined her head to peer into the pan. "Are those pancakes?"

Humming an affirmative, he dipped a fork into the batter and held it out, keeping one hand underneath to catch any drops that fell. Amara liked the taste and so did he, but had Sheral seen them, she would have told them exactly how bad that batter was for them.

They ate breakfast on the counter, sharing the same glass of orange juice. Amara stayed sitting where she was, but her eyes kept drifting to the window, at the slanting rays of the rising sun. Allen was surprised. She was done eating and Amara was not one for wasting time away when she had to be somewhere. Namely the bus stop in half an hour.

"Do you plan on getting ready for school any time in the next five minutes, darling?"

Her small shoulders lifted and fell in a shrug. "Don't really feel like goin'."

"Why?"

She hesitated and dropped her eyes. "…Other kids don' really like me."

The protective instincts of his reared their heads, but he kept them under control. "Have they told you why?"

"Prob'ly 'cause I'm better at sports than the boys are." She was faster and could kick a football pretty far, even if she wasn't very good at aiming it yet.

"And the girls?"

Another shrug. "They're weird. Always giggling and they're kinda annoying."

_(Amara will never be the kind of girl that has a lot of girl friends. In her entire life, she will have, perhaps, a total of about ten and only about two of them know her after college)_

"Darling, have you made any friends?"

She made a so-so motion with her hand. "Michael in the other class. We have lunch together sometimes."

Allen didn't know what to do with that. He hadn't even finished school, hadn't spent much time in it at all. And he had Charlie growing up in the apartment across the hall, practically a brother. So he kissed her hairline as he picked her up and put her on the ground. "…It'll get better. I promise."

She beamed, confident that her father wouldn't lie to her. _(He remembers that look for the rest of his life)_


	4. One Before the Other

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When he is twenty years old, Cameron Reynolds learns what it is to burn alive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are descriptions of bodies in here that can get a little graphic. Only warning.

 

* * *

_"I think it's very healthy to spend time alone. You need to know how to be alone and not be defined by another person."  
-Oscar Wilde_

* * *

Cameron Reynolds has never known a life without his brother. The very idea is something outside of his realm of understanding.

Their mother has a good eye roll that she gives the two of them when they get into trouble _(And they did get into a lot of trouble. They were short and skinny, making them easy targets for bullies, but—and this was according to Mom—they had both inherited the Bannon spirit. It meant no backing down and no giving in)_. She still slaps a steak over their black eyes and dabs at the cuts and split lips with alcohol. And not the rubbing kind because she'd been raised 'the right way' and any alcohol you couldn't drink isn't worthy of the name.

The twins know when the other gets into trouble. They feel it. Once, Cameron is home sick, curled beneath a blanket, box of tissues and a trash can on the ground beside the sofa and watching Duck Dodgers when his arm is split in two. Or so it feels like.

A few minutes later, Emma—home with her son because she isn't letting him stay home sick by himself, despite how much he protests that he's perfectly capable of it when he's fifteen years old—gets a call from the school. Arthur James Reynolds had been in a fight. Again.

_(Cameron knew immediately what that meant because while his brother was a fierce fighter, the two of them only ever won their fights because there were two of them. All of the bullies versus his brother alone…)_

His arm is still aching and he wants to make it go away and there's a frantic hum in his chest of worry. Emma is grabbing her keys and purse—"Stay _here_ , Cameron. No, you can't come with me. Your brother's fine…"—and Cameron stays on the couch, clutching at his arm and waiting for the pain to fade.

_(That night, Arthur James Reynolds would slip carefully into his brother's bed, the cast on his arm making him awkward. Cameron woke to the familiar presence and his arm didn't hurt anymore. But Arthur seemed to know anyway, a sympathetic smile on his face as his good arm ruffled his brother's hair and traced absent patterns on the left arm that had been aching and throbbing all day, despite there being nothing physically wrong._

_"'m sorry. Should've been more careful."_

_Cameron shoved the apology away. "'s their fault."_

_"I might have started it."_

_An arched eyebrow. "Might?"_

_"Okay, I provoked them. But they had it coming."_

_"Oh did they?"_

_Arthur laughed, the sound familiar and warm in the semi-darkness of their shared room. They fell asleep talking into the night, squished onto the twin bed. Tomorrow, they'll wake up stiff, with faces buried in pillows to avoid the sunlight coming in through the curtains and they want life to always be like this)_

* * *

Cameron Reynolds' world is turned upside down when he is twenty years old.

The silence of the world is ringing in his ears and everything is echoing shades of orange and yellow. And all he can think is that Arty had been _right beside him_ and where is he now?

He's stumbling to his feet, his limbs not listening to him right and where's Arty? Is he okay? He tries to find his voice and he can't. It's stuck in his throat and he can't quite keep himself upright. Why won't the earth stop spinning?

Sound comes back in stages. A low buzz is all it is at first. It's all he hears as he staggers around, eyes searching the red and orange world for his brother.

The pain comes back first. It rips into him with the grace of a tornado and he's falling apart, the world out of focus. He trips over something, hurtling face-first towards the sandy ground. He spits sand that tastes metallic and his arms don't want to quite hold him up anymore. He manages to turn to see what it is he tripped over and the sight makes a sob want to rip from his throat.

"Arty?" he whispers, crawling over to him and God, something _hurts_ and the full-body pain is more concentrated now, a fiery throbbing in his side, but even that pain is dull compared to what's clawing at his insides.

His brother is a wreck. His body is seared beyond recognition in some places and one eye has been ruptured, the jelly oozing down the burned remains of his face _(Cameron's face because they're twins and he won't be able to stop seeing this in the mirror. Ever.)_ One eye is still good, still open, that bright bright green that Cameron has always known, that was the first color he ever learned. His body is bruised yellow and smeared with purple-blacks and there are bulges in places where they don't belong. The little silver cross is tangled with the dog tags and they burn to touch. The tattoo on his forearm is hardly legible, pieces of his skin too burnt to be seen.

And Cameron thinks it's funny, in a horrible, morbidly ironic, kind of way because Philippians 4:13 has never sounded sadder. _I can do all things through God, who strengthens me._ Except survive because where is God now?

He notices, dimly, the taste of salt and he wonders when he started crying. His mouth is cotton and he doesn't want to leave his brother's side because they're _twins_ and that's how it always should be.

He hears a dull roaring and he's being shoved to the ground. It takes him a second to orient himself and see Enrique—the friendly Cuban with a laugh like thunder—holding his shoulder and repeating something over and over that Cameron can't make out and he's starting to think that this isn't good.

"…nder…body…need some…"

The words fade in and out, but at least he can hear things again. He tries talking. "Enrique?"7

He doesn't know what's happening after that, but they're hauling him up and away from Arty's body, which makes him lunge forward because they can't separate them, not now. Not after all this and he feels the tears now, falling down his cheeks and his head hurts and please let this be a nightmare, a terrible nightmare that he can wake up from.

_(It wasn't. It was on this day, a very real day in a very real life, that Cameron Reynolds learned what it was to burn alive)_

* * *

He shouldn't be feeling numb. Cameron has seen his injury in the mirror, the one time he dares to look. _(He saw his brother's face, seared and melting and half-gone and it made him sick to even think about it)_ It's a gruesome thing, red and raw and he shudders whenever he pictures it, but it doesn't hurt.

But he can't feel it and it's not because of whatever meds they're giving him. He can't feel anything except for a heavy ache in his chest. His squad leader visits him on the morning of day two in his Life After the Explosion. He leaves behind two things. A pair of dog tags and a little silver cross, nearly identical to the one that Cameron had worn up until he'd seen his brother's corpse.

Cameron doesn't let go of the dog tags. The cross stays on the table.

_(He'd always been able to feel his brother. A constant, gentle press of emotion that could swell with happiness or sink with sadness and jab with pain. There was nothing now. Nothing at all except his own emotions, his own thoughts with no one to bounce them off of, no one to know what he'll say before he says it. It's the loneliest feeling in the world)_


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is essentially one giant What-If for the Tit for Tat-verse.

* * *

_The bitterest tears shed over a grave are for words left unsaid and deeds left undone.  
-Harriet Beecher Stowe_

* * *

He first met Arthur on a job. The point man was neat and sleek with a subtle strength in every step. He shook Eames' hand and said, "I hope you're more than you seem."

Eames had flashed a grin. "You're welcome to take a closer look, darling." Because it would be fun, to see all this neatness rumpled and sprawled and what a pretty picture it would make.

But the point man pulled back and said, "Don't call me that."

Their first job was an incredible success. Eames had watched Arthur throughout it all, had seen his precision, his skill, his quirk for dreaming impossibilities. He wasn't fooled by a forge and when Eames asked what gave him away, Arthur just looked at him. "It's obvious. You don't look the same in a mirror."

He practiced from then on. The trick was to trick his own mind into believing the forge as well as the mark's, otherwise it would continue to see his true self in a reflection.

The next time he saw Arthur, the point man shifted his weight and flicked his eyes at Eames' person. He glanced at the reflection in a shop window. "Better."

"Not enough for your standards, darling?"

The rebuff was automatic. "I'm not your darling, Mr. Eames. Or anything else, for that matter. And no, it isn't."

Arthur didn't even need to try before the windows of the shops were folding out into a glass prison, all reflecting themselves infinitely. Eames caught himself, not the forge, reflected somewhere in eternity.

"How much do you believe in it all, Mr. Eames?" And Arthur was reflected only as himself, a person so comfortable in their own skin that they had no desire to be anyone else. It was an idea with which Eames had no way to wrap his mind around.

_(There is a flash of green somewhere in that infinity, but Eames doesn't catch it.)_

* * *

It took a year. A year of jobs and endless back-and-forths and more than a little confusion on Eames' part because for someone who seemed so put together, Arthur's moods could be mercurial from one sighting to the next.

Three hundred and sixty-five days (Or thereabouts) of casual flirting and hundreds of innuendos.

Fifty-two weeks (Roughly) of learning all he could about the point man. _(He only ever likes his coffee one of two ways. Very dark and bitter with just a hint of sugar or with milk and a teaspoon of sweetness. Never any of the fancy Starbucks things and always Columbian)_

Twelve months (Almost) of so-closes and slivers of a smirk with a hint of dimples. _(Arthur, Eames has learned, can be a tease if he really wants to be)_

A year to get Arthur in his bed. And Eames isn't disappointed.

_(He memorizes the little imperfections. The almost imperceptible scar above an eyebrow. The birthmark on the subtle angle of his hipbone. The challenging flash of a grin before he switches their positions)_

* * *

He stirred awake to the shift of the mattress. Cracking his eyes open to see Arthur sitting up, he asked blearily, "Leaving so soon, darling?"

Arthur glanced back at him. He wasn't neat anymore. His hair was disheveled, bruises along his neck. "I have a flight to catch."

"Oh? Where to?" Arthur made his way around the room, bending to collect his clothes. He didn't answer. "Don't trust me?"

Arthur straightened as he pulled on his underwear and his pants. "Not remotely."

Eames grinned a little. "Now , I think we both know that's not true."

Arthur rolled his eyes. "…Switzerland. For a while."

"Perhaps I'll find you there."

"No, you won't."

And Eames knew that if Arthur didn't want to be found, he wouldn't be. So he didn't argue. Just watched Arthur finish dressing, managed to snag a kiss that tasted like stale coffee and old cinnamon gum, and waited until he heard the door lock before going back to sleep.

He left the next morning for Venezuela. A job that his friend Oscar found for him. When he entered the hole-in-the-wall apartment they were working in, he froze.

Because Arthur was supposed to be in Switzerland by now. But here he was, standing right in front of him, crisp and clean as though last night never happened.

"Arthur. I thought you were in Switzerland?"

Not a flicker of change in that face, those eyes. "Decided against it."

"Or were you lying to me?"

"Would I ever do that?" On most people, it would sound coy. With Arthur and his dry wit, it just kept Eames off balance because he honestly didn't know. It was part of what he liked about him.

"In a heartbeat."

"I'm so glad we're on the same page, Mr. Eames. Now, did you come to catch up or to do your job?"

The chilly distance wasn't something new. Arthur was a professional and, at the end of the day, so was Eames. So they worked together to do their job. And there were very few teams who worked together as well as they did. The Cobbs. Sharon Rine and Janina Underwood. _(There are rumors that they've gone to the other side, that they were working for American Interpol now. It makes things interesting)_

But as the rest of the team was filing out and getting their taxis, Eames walked a block and a half down to where Arthur had gotten a head start to talk to him about getting some dinner and perhaps a room—preferably the room— when he saw that Arthur was on the phone with someone.

"…landed? What happened?" A pause. "…You have _the_ worst luck with planes." Eames' eyebrows inched upwards towards his hairline at the huff of laughter that escaped him. "…I don't think you know the meaning of literally."

Arthur looked over, saw Eames. "…Stay safe."

He thumbed his phone off—Arthur did miss flip phones, if only for the fact that his hands were never idle with them—and slid it in his pocket. "Something you need?"

"How does dinner sound?"

Arthur took a step back. Eames had already measured it out the first time they met. Arthur liked a distance of at least two feet between himself and other people. But Eames would have thought, after the other night, that they'd be past things like that.

"I'm not staying."

"You're a busy bee lately." Not shocking. Arthur's skills were valuable.

"Who am I to say no to work? You know how it is with this economy an all."

Eames couldn't quite imagine Arthur as a normal person with a nine to five job and a daily commute. Couldn't imagine him without his paradoxes and his sharp suits, couldn't imagine him taking orders from his boss or dealing with customers. Not that Arthur was incapable of doing those things; polite seemed to be Arthur's default setting and he could be friendly or charming when he wanted to be. He could take orders—Eames knew a military man when he saw one. It was likely how he'd even learned about dreamwork—but he only took them from people he respected. And Arthur's respect was a difficult thing to earn.

"What's the job?" Eames asked and he knew Arthur had the details because the point man didn't put his own or other people's lives in danger without knowing what the decision would cost.

"Wouldn't you like to know?"

And Eames knew he wouldn't get a straight answer out of Arthur because in a line of work like theirs, it was too easy to be on opposing sides.

* * *

The first time he worked with the Cobbs and Arthur at the same time, it was well after the first time they slept together. And the second. And even the third. It was a job in Albuquerque. The place had enough of a transient population that getting away with the job wouldn't be terribly difficult.

He was surprised at how very much at ease Arthur seemed with Mal. He smiled easier around her, his professionalism not vanishing, but diminishing. She seemed surprised that they already knew each other.

"To be honest," she would say during lunch that day, "I'm surprised you haven't driven him mad."

Eames smirked across the table. "It's a slow process."

"A nonexistent one," Arthur shot back.

"Are you trying to tell me that I have no effect on you, darling?"

"Eames, your ego's writing checks your body can't cash."

"Already resorting to movie quotes? You're killing me, smalls."

Arthur smirked and leaned forward on his forearms. "Last I checked, you didn't think anything about me was small."

"I told you it was a bad idea to get them in a room together," Dom grumbled to his wife.

Mal only laughed. "That depends on your definition of a bad idea."

* * *

Eames watched him pad across the floor in little more than a towel. "…Have you ever thought of getting a tattoo, darling?"

"…Once."

"Only once? What kind of terrible, misspent youth did you have?"

Arthur eyed Eames' numerous tattoos. "Clearly a better one than you did."

"Touché. What was it going to be?"

"Semper fidelis."

"Marine corps motto," Eames noted. He knew that Arthur had been in the military—it was too easy to see. The posture, the training, the dog tags around his neck that he was always careful to take off when things got…heated—but he hadn't known him until well after the fact. "That dedicated, are you?" He believed it, out of Arthur. He didn't think Arthur would ever sell anyone out, not for the world. Arthur was the embodiment of loyalty.

"I liked the meaning rather than the corps."

"Not fond of your military days?"

"Is anyone?"

"See the world, meet new people…"

"And then shoot them where they stand," Arthur finished.

"Exactly."

Arthur was buttoning his shirt when he asked, "Were you in the Army?"

And Eames didn't know why he told him. After all, no one knew much at all about Eames the Forger. But then again, he supposed, if anyone were to know, it would be Arthur. "Yes, I was."

"I can't picture it. You in a uniform and taking orders."

"My superiors weren't fond of me. Thought I was a 'wild card'."

A hum of interest and a sly look in coffee-brown eyes. "Funny—my superiors said the same thing."

"Yes, you prefer to be the one giving the orders." Eames slid an arm around Arthur's waist, tugging him backwards onto the bed.

Arthur twisted so he was on his side, facing Eames. "Don't act like you don't like it that way." A light kiss that Eames quickly deepened. Arthur pulled away, close enough that Eames could count his eyelashes and see the faint scar above his eyebrow. "You can't get me to stay, Eames."

"I don't know about that. I can be pretty convincing."

"Of that, I have no doubt. But you'll have to convince me another day."

* * *

Once, Eames let his curiosity roam. Arthur was asleep beside him and Eames could see the glint of his dog tags on the bedside table. With a thief's nimbleness, he snatched them from the table without a hint of noise. It took a moment to catch the right angle so he could read the name imprinted on it.

Arthur James Reynolds.

Eames repeated the name, rolling it in his mind to get a feel for it.

He hadn't realized he'd said it aloud until Arthur stirred, turning partially onto his back to see what possible reason was there for the universe to wake him at that precise moment. And Eames froze because he knew how closely Arthur guarded his secrets.

"'mes?" Arthur blinked sleepily at him. "The hell's going on?" His eyes caught the tags still resting in Eames' palm. "What're you doing with those?"

"Looking," Eames replied. "Arthur is your real name?" Names weren't what people thought they were. They weren't simply words. They were entire identities, personalities with quirks and moods and tendencies all in one. He knew all about being someone you weren't before. He excelled at it.

And Arthur—now a man with a middle and last name, a whole life attached to him—hesitated before saying, "…Yes."

Eames could have delved deeper, but he knew he wouldn't get an answer. He may be one of the people who knew the most about Arthur the point man, but that didn't mean he would ever know everything. And vice versa.

* * *

Arthur's phone rang in the warehouse, surprising them all because he usually kept it on vibrate while working. The even more surprising part was that he didn't ignore it, like Eames had seen him do. He set down what he was working on and quickly crossed the room to his desk and fished his phone out from the pocket in his suit jacket that was slung across the back of the chair.

He checked the number and was already quickly striding outside as he answered it. "Hello…is something…?" The warehouse was thrust into silence as he shut the door.

Eames waited until he saw Arthur put the phone down before he stepped outside. "What's happened?"

Arthur flicked his eyes up to him and, at this angle, they seemed to almost change color. "Nothing."

_(Eames compiles his notes, makes comparisons and finds something just a little…off.)_

* * *

Inception was hell. Plain and simple. Eames had no desire to go back down to limbo. He managed to catch Arthur before he left the airport, but the point man looked drained and tired.

"Where will you go?" Eames asked.

"Some time off, I think." And Eames could understand that. His mind was exhausted; he couldn't imagine Arthur's.

He offered a flat he had in San Francisco, where he was fond of the morning mist and the hills. Arthur thought about it, seemed to hesitate and for a moment, Eames was afraid he would say no. He didn't.

They spent three weeks together in which Eames learned little things. Like Arthur was no good at cooking. Like he was an early riser. Like he wore glasses and used contacts much of the time. He learned his taste in music as they drove out to anywhere. Learned his favorite movies and that he was a Star Wars fan _(There is some teasing on that one)_. He learned what Arthur looked like in jeans and a T-shirt. In a worn leather jacket. In a fedora that Eames swiped from a stand in a store. It suited him, with his curls coming loose from the gel in the California heat and the laughter in his eyes and the suggestion of sound in his smile.

_(They wander through San Francisco like they're ten years younger than they are and there's a point where they're standing on the roof of Eames' building and they sit on the edge. That day, Eames learns that Arthur likes strawberry ice cream and he laughs when Arthur tries to catch the drops melting from his fingers. Arthur shoves him with his shoulder, which only makes him laugh harder and they don't want the three weeks to ever end)_

* * *

Arthur left on a Tuesday. Because while nobody liked Mondays and he would have been perfectly justified in leaving on a Monday, it wasn't in that kind of context. It wasn't that kind of leaving, the guilty, 'I shouldn't be here' kind of mentality. And Eames knew this because Arthur left a postcard. The photo was of the Duomo in Florence. And written on the back, in Arthur's strange half-print, half-cursive, were eight words.

_There's a job in two weeks. You in?_

The curve of the question mark was sharp and smooth. Nothing was hurried in the note. No shame. No guilt. No excuses.

Eames appreciated that.

* * *

The job in Florence went sideways. Fast. The team split and Eames barely caught sight of Arthur running out first, gun in hand. Eames was already two blocks away from the gunfire when he glanced back and watched Arthur be hit in the arm.

And Eames wished he could still be a coward and leave him there because that was what he'd been comfortable with for years. But Arthur was good at changing people's minds. Arthur fought him a little, but not much because his sleeve was quickly becoming soaked in red.

The next twenty minutes were a blur of ducking and hiding and tugging Arthur through the back of an apartment building. Eames waited until he could breathe normally again before looking back at Arthur, who'd slid down the wall until he was sitting against it. "Let me see." Arthur glared at him, bristling like a cornered wolf. But Eames wasn't afraid of his temper, never had been. "It's going to take a lot more than that to get me to go away, darling."

It was too easy for Eames to gently grasp Arthur's arm and tug the sleeve up as high as it would go. It clung to him where it was soaked in blood and Eames had to peel it away. "We need to get this clean. I can't even see what—hang on." Eames dug inside one of his pockets and pulled out a wrinkly handkerchief. Even without a whole lot of expression—the blood loss must be kicking in—Eames managed to guess Arthur's thoughts. "Relax, it's clean. Mostly."

"It wasn't a through and through," Eames said as he tied off the wound. They couldn't really go to a hospital—not with just the clothes on their backs. They were wanted men, after all—but that would take care of the worst of it for now. "We can wait 'til we're safe to try and dig that bullet out."

_(It's been a long time since he's had to deal with other people's bullet wounds. Not since Afghanistan. And even then, he hadn't been very good at it)_

He eyed Arthur's bloodied arm. "We need to wash that off otherwise you're going to be attracting a lot of attention."

Before he could get a chance, shouting and shots rang out and Arthur had his pistol in his hands, teeth grit in determination because damned if he was going to be a sitting duck. They started running at the same time and split up with a single word passed between them. Rendezvous.

That was the last time he saw Arthur alive.

* * *

Cobb was the one who called him.

Arthur was dead, he said. And Eames had thought he'd had too easy of a time getting away from those guys in Florence, but he hadn't thought that they'd concentrate on getting Arthur.

Arthur who was found dead and bloodied in a stinking alleyway.

Arthur who had left messages on his laptop. Just in case because he was always thinking ahead.

Arthur who wanted to be buried in Vermont. Vermont where he'd grown up. Where his family was.

_(Eames cannot quite picture him with a family. It's a strange thought and a sad one)_

The funeral was quiet, but Eames stared at a man standing by the grave. A man with Arthur's face. Identical, except for green eyes. A man who had a pretty woman next to him and a little girl beside him, her face wide with Arthur's eyes and mouse brown curls. On the other side of him was a tall young woman, dark hair tangled from the wind and there were a few leaves caught in it. She looked a bit like Arthur as well and there was a boy holding her hand. An older woman beside them, a little chubby now but with traces of being beautiful in her youth.

_(Is this his family, Eames thinks? There are so many of them. Arthur has never seemed to Eames like the man who had the long tables at Thanksgiving, who went home to people at Christmas. Who had people who would miss him)_

And the name Arthur was buried with was not the one Eames knew. Was not Arthur James Reynolds.

Cameron Reynolds.

He didn't know that name. Had never heard it. But no one else, save the Cobbs, seemed surprised.

After the funeral, when everyone was packing away into their cars, the man with Arthur's face approached Eames. His eyes were red, but there were few other signs of crying.

"Eames," he said simple and God, it was disconcerting because his voice was so close to the same. The measurement of the words was different, but the voice itself…

"Can I help you?"

The man held his hand out. "…My name is Arthur James Reynolds. I-I think I owe you an explanation. For my brother."

* * *

They got food from a sandwich shop with no tables. They ate outside, sitting on a low wall staring out at the street. There were dog tags around Arthur James' neck too and Eames wondered if they read Cameron Reynolds. There was no scar above his eyebrow. His face held more laughter lines and more tiredness as well and when he removed the suit jacket and rolled up his sleeves, Eames saw the tattoo on his forearm.

Philippians 4:13. He'd never been very good with the Bible.

"Explain," Eames finally managed.

"I'm trying to figure out where to start." He ran a hand through his hair and the movement was so familiar, it _ached._ "It started, I guess, when we joined the military. We were eighteen and looking for college money. It was easy, then. We'd been out in Iraq for…two years. There was an explosion nearby. We got lucky; managed to stay out of the radius. Mostly. I'm still a little deaf in one ear. But they were doing medical checkups afterwards when they came. They talked to both of us, said they worked in dream technology and were curious about how twins' minds would work with it. It was good money…money we would never have gotten otherwise. So we did it. Both of us. But…I couldn't keep doing it. I wanted my family, a stable place to call home. Cameron," a fond, sad smile and a huff of soft laughter. "He was a natural. He loved it, more than, I think, anything else. It was beautiful to watch him work. I'm…not the artistic type. It was never for me. He kept doing it. And, sometimes, when I needed to dream again—because, and I'm sure you've realized this—it's not something that's so easy to give up. So we would switch. He'd stay home, go to work for me, take care of April and my daughter. And I would dream."

"You were there, some of the time. It's how you know me."

Arthur James nodded. "Cameron told me. About the two of you. I told him it was a stupid idea. Too dangerous."

"You were right."

"I wish I wasn't." Arthur James looked terrible in that moment, tortured and like half of him was missing. Which it was. "Cameron was happy, I saw it. I was proud of him, for finding something he loved that much. For finding someone to share it with. It was weird. We'd never been so separated."

"How are you so calm? About all of this?"

"Eames, I'm not an idiot. I knew the risks he was taking and so did he. I think he died doing he wanted to do. There's not much more you can ask for a man. I'll probably be pissed at him, later. Wonder why he couldn't stay safe. Stay stable, like me. It'll be so dumb, but the five stages and all that."

 _(Arthur, as Eames has always known him, is a practical person. Both brothers are, were, the same in that respect)_ "Why tell me?"

"Because I think you deserve to know. He loved you, I think. I can't be certain. But you deserve to know the truth."

"…What will you do now?"

"Do?" A small snort. "The only thing I know how to. Work. Take care of my family—what's left of it. Probably work s'more until I retire."

"Sounds terribly boring."

The burst of laughter surprised Eames and perhaps it surprised Arthur James too. The laughter, the smile, dimples and all, was still in his face when he looked at Eames. _(It hurts to look at him, to see Arthur's face and remember it in California sunlight and Eames wants to walk away. To get on a plane and get as far away from Vermont as possible. To India, to Shanghai, to Ireland, to Argentina. Anywhere but here, with this distorted mirror image)_

"He told me the same thing once."

_(Those words, somehow, don't hurt quite as much)_

* * *

Eames went back to Vermont once after that. A year later. He found Arthur James sitting by the grave, rolling a red die absentmindedly on the ground. He looked up when he heard Eames approach.

"You came back. Color me surprised."

"You still have a totem. I thought you gave up that life."

He stopped the die, holding it in his palm. "You mean this? This was never a totem. For either of us. It was a decoy."

Eames thought about it, figured it out. "The dog tags."

"Mm. No one other than us knew. It was safer that way. And die—well. Dice usually come in pairs." Arthur James stood up, brushing the dirt off his jeans. "I'll leave you two alone for the moment."

 _(Sometimes, it's strange how Arthur James sometimes talks about his brother like he's still alive. If Eames cared a little more—he can't right now, he_ can't _—he'd be concerned that it's a sign of mental distress. The dream-related kind)_

Eames didn't even really know what to say. He'd never been the type, really, to talk to graves. He tended to pretend they didn't exist for him. But he managed to find some words to share. Told Arthur about Phillipa and James and how big they'd gotten. They missed him. _(He doesn't share how much they_ all _miss him)_

He heard the call before he heard her. "Ashley!"

He turned when he saw the little girl running towards him. It was the little girl from the funeral, with her brown curls bouncing in a ponytail, the hair tie having glittery pompoms. She had Arthur's eyes, brown like coffee.

She was bold like him too. "Did you know my uncle?" she asked. More like demanded really, with all the confidence of children.

He saw Arthur James striding towards them, sleek and with a hidden strength. Eames crouched in front of her, saw that there was a softness to her face that must have come from her mother, but saw the freckles dotted across the nose, saw a birthmark just by her ear. _(He misses his own daughter, looking at her. Misses his own little girl who isn't so little anymore. Misses his ex-wife and her laughter. Misses their apartment in London. He misses it all with a fierce ache right now)_

"Yes, I did," he said.

"Were you friends?"

"Yes." And it hurt because who knew that that was where they would get to, that day when they met?

"Daddy says that he's in heaven now. That he's watching us." Eames noted a little gold cross on a thin chain around her neck and remembered the tattoo on Arthur James' arm. Ashley leaned forward a little, voice dropping in the precursor of a secret. "Sometimes, I don't think he really thinks that, though. I think he says it for Gramma and mommy, to make them feel better."

Arthur James had reached them now. "Ashley, I told you not to bother him."

Eames looked up at Arthur's face. "She's not a bother."

"Never thought you were one for children, Eames."

"There's a lot you don't know about me."

"Arty!" All three turned. The other young woman at the funeral, the same dark hair as the twins twisted up into a messy bun, but her eyes were a paler brown, much closer to hazel. There were smudges of charcoal on her fingers and jeans. She was wearing a worn hoodie, gray and a little holey in some places. Leather boots encased her feet, her ankles, her calves up to the knees.

Arthur James smiled when he saw her, a reflexive, natural response as she hugged him. He kissed the top of her head. "Hey, sweetheart."

The woman looked up at Eames, a familiar sharp intelligence in her eyes. She held out a hand. "I'm Mina. Well, Wilhelmina, but I don't like that name."

"Eames."

She didn't question the lack of a second name. He liked that. Or perhaps Arthur James had told her about him. Or perhaps Arthur had. Eames didn't know how close Arthur had been with these two. "Thank you. For coming, I mean."

"Why?"

"It's what I'm supposed to say, isn't it?"

"What do you actually want to say?" Her smile was sharp-edged and a little fierce, a little dangerous. "Nothing I can while in present company, Mr. Eames."

She said _mister_ the same way that Arthur had. Pausing a little to let the _s_ sound hiss for just a moment. Arthur James bent to pick up his daughter. "In that case, we're leaving." He was ten steps away when his voice floated back over his shoulders. "Don't do anything permanent, Mina."

Ashley waved and Eames waved back. An automatic response trained into him by his daughter.

He glanced back at Mina. "So what bone do you have to pick with me?"

"I saw you at the funeral. And I know how my brother died. Well, main cause of death being he bled out due to gunshot wounds. But there was more. Bruises. Cracked ribs. Concussion."

He didn't want to hear this. Not so clinical. Not like a list. But Mina had Arthur's same talent for making anger burn cold. "What about it?"

"The funeral was a week after he died. So explain to me why you were fine."

He blinked at her, not expecting that. "What?"

"Why were you completely okay while my brother died in pain? I know he died protecting you. I'm not blind."

"Don't go there."

"I need answers." There was no apology. No shame. No guilt. No excuses. Just a reason. Just eight words. "And you have them, Mr. Eames."

"I don't."

"You have more than I do." She hooked loose locks of hair behind her ears. "…I think that, at the end, you knew Cameron more than I did."

"No I didn't." And that was the truth because he had never known Cameron. He knew Arthur. A point man. A lover. A reader, a planner, a coffee addict and an accidental charmer. He didn't know the brother. The uncle. The son. He never knew that man. But he didn't know how to tell it to this woman, strong like old steel where, enough weight, and it would break and break and never stop.

She eyed him and perhaps, she did understand. _(He knows by the brushes of charcoal, by the old stains of paint, by the feathery earrings and the H2 pencil poked through her bun that she is an artist. And perhaps that is enough to understand because all dreamers are artists in their own right.)_

"Did you love him?" she asked finally.

And that was something he didn't know.

Because he remembered hotel rooms and leaving the next morning. Once or twice, they had breakfast together because they were both had early flights or trains. They would eat bagels or egg sandwiches from street vendors. Share a water bottle.

Eames remembered drinks after a job, Arthur's suit jacket on the seat and his sleeves rolled up. He smiled then and sometimes he laughed and it was difficult to see him in the dim light in those bars, but Eames had memorized his expressions since the beginning. Every nuance.

He remembered arguing back and forth. Snapping at each other over the PASIV and over the level sketches, over his notes. Smoking on the doorstep because while for Eames it was an addiction, for Arthur, it was only ever a stress-reliever. He remembered months of not even seeing each other. Remembered after a shared job that tension finally would snap and they'd end up either fighting or in a hotel room. Sometimes both. Sometimes, they didn't make it to a hotel room.

He remembered Mombasa. Remembered Arthur stretched across the sheets in the sunlight. Remembered him chuckling by himself and when Eames came in from the kitchen with breakfast on a tray and asked why, he'd only said that he was picturing Eames in a frilly apron, 50's sitcom housewife style.

Arthur bought him one too. It came in the mail on Christmas Eve, postmarked from Tennessee. With polka dots in yellow and green. It was hideous, Arthur's note read, and he said it was a perfect match for those shirts in the closet. And Eames wore it because while polka dots weren't nearly as good as paisley, they would do.

He remembered three weeks in San Francisco. Remembered startling awake at night terrors. Remembered kissing him on the street. Remembered strawberry ice cream and coffee at sunset. Remembered failed cooking and the radio cranked up. Remembered Elvis' voice melting into their bones in rush hour traffic. Remembered running out of gas on the highway and Arthur leaning the seat back to nap because why not? Remembered a gray fedora with a black band and leather jacket, cracked and weathered.

He remembered it all. But he didn't know.

_(Eames has been in love before. He loved his wife. He still loves her so much. He isn't in love with her anymore, but he loves her just the same. She's beautiful and incredible and he doesn't know why he fell out of love with her, but he did, so he knows it's possible. And what he and Arthur had hadn't been the same. So he doesn't know. In all honesty, he doesn't)_

But he was almost certain that he loved Arthur even if he might never have been in love with him, so he finally answered, "Yes."

She was very shrewd, very observant. And more than a little understanding, so she sighed and backed off a little. _(She shouldn't have to back off, Eames thinks. After all, she loves her brother too)_ But she didn't give in though. She just asked, looking smaller and a little more fragile, "Can you tell me? About what happened that day?"

"…Sure." And he thought he understood what Arthur James meant a year ago. That he deserved to know. Just like Mina deserved to know.

* * *

He invited her to dinner. He didn't know the area, but she smiled a little and said that she could eat anything. To pick a direction and they'd go from there. Eames didn't know if she was always like that.

They found a mom and pop shop. Eames noted the way they greeted Mina, friendly, but also slightly wary. He caught the falsely cheery response, the plastered on smile and waited until they were brought their food to say anything.

"Small town?"

The smile she gave was a little wry and a little bitter. Arthur had a similar smile sometimes. "How could you guess?"

"You could tell them to piss off."

"It only happens around this time of year. Besides, I don't need to be encouraging Arty." Eames frowned in confusion and she added, "He's the one that gets in their faces about it, tells them to either mind their own business or tell him straight. He…he can't stand being pitied. Ever. So he lashes out."

The twins were more alike than Eames had thought. Arthur could lash out too, with a sharp tongue and a temper of harpoons and ice when he was furious and of steel and spitfire the rest of the time.

"And you?"

"And me what?"

"You don't seem the type to like being pitied either."

"I'm not. But I'm also better at keeping my temper." She took a bite of her sandwich and her nose wrinkled. Setting the sandwich down, Mina took off the top slice of bread and poked through the sandwich, picking out the pickles. She looked up at Eames through her lashes and the few stubbornly loose locks of hair. _(She resembles Arthur. Not just in looks, but in mannerisms sometimes too. It hurts)_ "I thought you were going to tell me. About that day."

And he did. Haltingly, at first. Reluctantly. But after a point, it started spilling out of him. Mina didn't interrupt, didn't stop him, didn't ask questions. Not even afterwards. Just sat and sipped thoughtfully at her soda.

_(He likes Mina. He does. He's known her for all of two hours, but he knows that he likes her. She is a dim shadow of Arthur, close enough to hurt, but also close enough that it doesn't and perhaps that makes no sense, but it's true nonetheless)_

Finally, she chuckled to herself. It was an acrid, almost harsh sound. "Son of a bitch. That sounds like him. He was always putting other people first. God, he was so _stupid."_

Eames wasn't sure if he was being insulted or not and, if he was, he could hardly bring himself to care because he was agreeing with her.

_(When they part ways, she kisses his cheek and thanks him. She looks sad and like a lonely painting, with the wind whipping her clothes. The too-big hoodie makes her look smaller and she is already slim, if tall. She tells him that if he ever wants to come back, he's welcome to. He never tells her that he's a little grateful for that)_

* * *

He visited every now and again and not only on that anniversary. Mina was a little brighter the rest of the year and he was invited to her wedding to a schoolteacher from Wisconsin. She was radiant in her dress and Ashley was her flower girl. Arthur James walked her down the aisle and there was a single thought behind both of their eyes as they shared a look before they started walking. _(Cameron should be here, should be on the other side of her)_ But they didn't let that thought ruin the day.

He was there for a Thanksgiving once, but that was by accident. He didn't keep that date in his head, had never actually celebrated it before. It's friendly and shouting across the dinner table and drinks all around—"We're Irish, what can you expect?" Arthur James said, shrugging _(It's a strange thing to think of Arthur with a heritage, with racial quirks and filled stereotypes)_ —and Ms. Reynolds was a sharp woman who wouldn't take shit from anyone and Eames found himself liking her very much. Two of her brothers made it for Thanksgiving, one from Ireland and one from Georgia. They're boisterous and loud and they sweep her up in bear hugs when they saw her and Eames had seen Arthur James do the very same thing to Mina.

He was gone for half an hour on a trip to the bathroom. He didn't tell anyone why, but on the way there, he saw the photos. Photos of the twins, arms around each other, grinning and caught in mid-laughter, one with bright green Emerald City Technicolor eyes and the other one with coffee eyes and longer hair and there's a half-healed cut above his eyebrow in some of them that Eames knew would scar. There were photos of the siblings, in the pool, out by a lake, on a ferry doing King of the World. Photos with their mother at graduation or reading in the park, one of her teaching in her classroom.

He stared at Arthur's face, the most recent one, in a photo where he was his brother's best man and he was wearing a suit—not one of his better ones, but a normal one for appearances—and his hair was only vaguely gelled, some curls coming loose and they both looked like they were holding back a burst of laughter, their eyes shining with it.

 _(It's one of those times when he_ misses _him. It happens more often on jobs, when he's working and he doesn't hear Arthur's familiar sounds or have someone to go with to lunch or to have a glass of wine with at night, feet kicked up on the desks, leaning back in their chairs. He misses more than just the lover. He misses the friend, the partner.)_

"It never goes away, does it?"

Eames glanced over to see Arthur James in the mouth of the hallway, hands in the pockets of his jeans and lacking that old military posture that Arthur never quite got rid of. "What doesn't?"

Green eyes passed over the pictures and despite effort to the contrary, Eames could see the terrible sadness in them. "Missing him."

"…No, it doesn't."

"Thought it was just me, for a while. Mom's not quite the same, but she's strong. Mina's like her and she's been preoccupied with the pregnancy and all that." He paused uncertainly before continuing. "…Is it weird that I still expect to see him? Or sometimes I hear my phone ring and I swear it's him?"

Eames shook his head. "…No. Not at all." He still swore he saw Arthur sometimes, when he was doing his laundry and there were some of Arthur's still mixed in and he smelled the faint hint of his cologne. He expected him to come around the corner or in through the front door and Eames _swore_ he saw that expression, that arch of an eyebrow and a smirk playing at the corner of his lips as he said, "Laundry, Mr. Eames? I may die of shock."

_(But it's a lie, every time. And he wonders if perhaps, Arthur James searching for something too. Something that he doesn't even know he's looking for. Not that Eames does. He has a clue. Closure. But he doesn't know how to find that. But maybe this is part of it.)_


End file.
